


charge management

by ohdeariemegoodness



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Medical Procedures, Mildly Dubious Consent, Other, Post-War, also "medical" procedures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:48:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22395037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohdeariemegoodness/pseuds/ohdeariemegoodness
Summary: First Aid helps Vortex with a little problem.  Well, a moderately-sized problem.
Relationships: First Aid/Vortex
Comments: 18
Kudos: 92
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	charge management

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rayguntomyhead](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rayguntomyhead/gifts).



After nearly an hour of searching, First Aid finally finds Vortex holed up behind the base’s tertiary power generator. A small pool of oil is dripping down from his hiding spot. First Aid takes a deep breath, building his courage, and then knocks loudly on the wall to get his attention. 

“Vortex, it’s okay to be afraid, but you need to come out from there,” First Aid says firmly. “You are in immediate need of medical treatment.” 

Vortex mumbles something, incoherent, but First Aid gets the gist of it. He’s had this conversation about a hundred times already—with few exceptions, any Decepticon not unconscious or too injured to move prefers to hide out and rely on self-repair, rather than report to the infirmary—although this is the first time he’s having it with _Vortex_. Usually Ratchet keeps the more dangerous patients for himself, but it's going to take him another thirty astrominutes to get back to base, and First Aid takes his medical oaths seriously. He isn’t going to let Vortex suffer out of fear. 

“Well, if you’re not afraid, then I don’t know why you’re still hiding up there,” First Aid tries. 

Vortex lets out a loud echoing snarl. First Aid jumps back without meaning to, his threat-evaluation routines kicking in and issuing a recommendation to _run_ , but he manually dismisses the alert. 

“Okay,” First Aid says, finally. “It just looks an awful lot like hiding to me, I guess.”

“ _Not_ ,” Vortex protests, the first coherent word he’s issued since taking a massive durasteel beam to the head earlier that day, and First Aid breathes a sigh of relief. Operational language function, however limited, is a good sign. 

“It’s just me down here,” First Aid says. “Do you really want to risk permanent damage just because you’re scared of a little scan?” 

Vortex snarls again, but after a moment, he finally does start to come out, banging and clanging and damaging who-knows-what. First Aid sighs and files a maintenance notification with the base computer, letting Wheeljack know to come down for an equipment inspection. 

“There you are,” First Aid says, when Vortex makes it out onto the floor. There’s a massive streak of dried oil and lubricant running down his body from his head, which has been completely caved in. It looks horrific, but he’s functioning, at least. First Aid gets to work immediately, running one hand over Vortex in a physical scan, and using the other to get plugged in to a medical access port. Almost instantly, he finds the immediate source of Vortex’s difficulties: a piece of dislodged cranial plating has gotten trapped between his external armor and his braincase, putting pressure directly onto his logic unit. 

“I’m just going to get this piece of plating removed, take some stress off your personality components,” First Aid tells him, transforming out a pair of forceps, and then he yanks the plating out without waiting another moment. Since the treaty was established, and he started treating Decepticons regularly, First Aid has discovered that the most effective treatment plans for Decepticons rely on the element of surprise. 

“Aghhhh,” Vortex says, leaning forward in sudden agony, but once the initial shock is over, his illumination routines even out and he looks up at First Aid with a little smirk.

“Came down to find me all by yourself, little Autobot?” Vortex asks, dimming his optics suggestively. 

“Yes,” First Aid says, not rising to the bait. “You need to get to the infirmary right away. Are you going to come with me, or do I need to get someone to come carry you?” 

“Oh, I’ll come anywhere with _you,”_ Vortex says, but First Aid is still plugged in monitoring his systems, and he sees the pulse of dread cycling up in Vortex’s emotional subsystem. Before the treaty, First Aid had known, intellectually, that Decepticons tended to resist medical treatment and distrust doctors in general. But it was only after they started providing joint medical services that First Aid realized how deep that fear and distrust ran—Ratchet theorizes that the reaction developed prior to the war, when an injured Decepticon might well be scrapped rather than repaired, depending on the expense. First Aid can’t even begin to imagine the horror and terror of it; sometimes he’s very glad to have been built _during_ the war. 

“Well, that’s good to hear, because I’m taking you to the infirmary,” First Aid says. He starts to unplug, considering Vortex’s systems stabilized enough for transport, when he catches a little spike of systems activity in the tarnic region. It almost looks like _arousal,_ if arousal was meant to be moderately painful and disruptive to systems functionality. First Aid looks a little closer, unhappy with Vortex’s internal metrics. Right on cue, Vortex starts panting, systems cycling in air to lower his internal temperature, and First Aid realizes—

“Oh Primus,” he says. “Your charge regulator is damaged.” 

Vortex cackles. “Is that what the bots are calling it these days?”

A little spark of charge erupts from Vortex’s medical port, tickling along First Aid’s cable, which is certainly charge resistant but is also quite _—sensitive._ First Aid gulps. Quickly, he inserts a monitoring routine into Vortex’s charge management system, which immediately returns a series of increasingly problematic results: malfunctioning transistors, scorched circuitry, and concentrated charge in three out of seven high-risk zones. 

First Aid unplugs, hooking Vortex up to a small hand-held scanner that displays the monitoring routine’s results on an external screen, and pulls a length of reinforced rubber sheathing out of his subspace. 

“I can provide assisted discharge, but I’ll need to manually connect our systems to run an external charge management routine. Do you consent to this procedure?” 

“Sure, but you don’t need all that,” Vortex says. “I like a little _crackle_ in my ports.” He laughs crudely. 

“Absolutely not,” First Aid says, resolutely applying rubber sheathing to his cable. “I am going to help you discharge the surplus energy and regain systems equilibrium, and then I am going to transport you to the infirmary. You do have the right to refuse treatment.” 

“I would never,” Vortex says, and all of his unoccupied data access panels slide open at once, revealing interface ports practically _dripping_ with lubricant. 

First Aid cancels visual input. Shamefully, he has to manually preempt his systems from redirecting resources to his own interface unit. Vortex is, admittedly, First Aid’s type—big, loud, top-heavy, a _rotary flight configuration_ , even—but this is a _medical procedure_. 

“C’mon, give it to me,” Vortex says, and First Aid gets his charge management routine queued up. Reluctantly, he re-enables visual input, since he needs it to properly monitor Vortex’s condition, but he tries to keep his gaze averted as he plugs in. 

“Yesssss,” Vortex hisses, and First Aid gulps, trying to focus on professionalism. He monitors the routine carefully as it bleeds charge off of Vortex’s most delicate systems, Vortex occasionally making a small sound of what First Aid originally presumes is discomfort. As the process shifts up into the next level, though, Vortex starts panting and squirming, pleasure plainly visible on his face. 

First Aid knows that it has to be painful—without a functional charge regulator, Vortex’s systems aren’t able to effectively distribute the charge, leaving it concentrated inside the port. But Vortex doesn’t seem to care, twisting and groaning, ramping up his charge levels beyond the recommended maximum for First Aid’s charge management routine.

“Vortex,” First Aid pleads, “you’re straining your system capacity. Try to be still, please.” 

Vortex just cackles wildly, writhing around almost enough to displace First Aid’s cable. First Aid’s systems automatically release grounding prongs to stabilize the cable, and Vortex gasps, stilling. 

“Now _that’s_ what I’m talking about,” Vortex says, after a moment. “I like a mech with teeth.” 

“This is a medical procedure,” First Aid scolds. “If you keep increasing your charge like this, I won’t be able to shield you from the overload.” 

One of Vortex’s cables comes spiraling out of his data access panel, oversized even for a _Decepticon_ , tip already flared with charge, and First Aid nearly loses all semblance of composure and releases his _own_ data access panel. It’s only with an enormous act of willpower that he manages to redirect his motivator and cancel the action before it can execute. 

“Here,” First Aid gets out, producing an adjustable grounding panel from his subspace. “You can plug into this.” 

“Do you really think _that’s_ gonna fit?” Vortex cackles. 

“It’s adjustable!” First Aid cries, and in pure desperation grabs Vortex’s cable with his bare hand and plugs it into the grounding panel himself before activating the final stage of the charge management routine entirely too early. 

Vortex cries out wildly as the backcharge shoots through both of them. First Aid realizes an astrosecond too late that the rubber shielding isn’t going to be enough, not with the power differential between them, and then pure white heat is rushing along his circuitry, agonizing and amazing all together. Vaguely, First Aid is aware of a massive popping sound, and footsteps clanking suddenly on the metal floor behind him, but he can’t even turn and look; it’s all he can do to maintain consciousness as every inch of pain and pleasure circuitry is activated at once, and external input drops out completely. 

First Aid’s systems come back online after a period of time that his emotional subsystem is attempting to categorize as either far too long or not nearly long enough, and he realizes he’s laid out flat on his back with Wheeljack staring in horror at him from above, one arm frozen halfway outstretched. First Aid can do nothing but stare back up at him for a full system exhaust cycle. 

“I think I blew a capacitor,” Vortex says eventually, with an air of mild bemusement, and First Aid’s overwhelmed motivator manages to generate the impulse to laugh. 

“You okay?” Wheeljack asks, finally snapping out of it. “Ratchet’s only a few astrominutes out. He got worried when you weren’t—answering his pings.” 

“I’m okay,” First Aid manages after a moment, although he’s not entirely sure how true that is. He pushes himself up into a sitting position. “Can you please—escort Vortex to the infirmary?” 

“Sure,” Wheeljack says, slowly. “Do you think you need to come to the infirmary, too?” 

“Not yet,” First Aid says firmly. Wheeljack stares for another long moment, and then clearly just decides to accept that for what it is and starts loading a still-dazed Vortex up. 

“Comm me sometime,” Vortex says as they leave, flashing his optical illumination routines suggestively from his position thrown over Wheeljack’s shoulder. 

First Aid runs another full exhaust cycle before giving up on being upright and lying straight back down. He becomes suddenly aware of a full series of unacknowledged damage reports clogging up his frontal processing, and forcibly dismisses all of them. 

“Computer, alert Ratchet to my position and request non-urgent medical assistance,” he says, and stares shell-shocked at the ceiling as his emotional subsystem, churning solidly away in the background, produces the inevitable conclusion: he _has_ to do that again. 

**Author's Note:**

> ...I wasn't so sure about this pairing before I started, but I think it might be growing on me, lol. Thanks for reading—please let me know what you thought!!


End file.
